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Description
Family Portrait.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. To be perfectly honest, there is nothing in the exaggerated and flamboyantly decorated room that he is more proud of, save for, perhaps, who is in the portrait itself. For this reason and this reason alone, the portrait remains in the middle of the wall, not above the fireplace but instead the wall adjacent to it so that he does not have to free the precious paints melting away.

The portrait is not of himself, the portrait is of no hero or knight on horseback, nor is it of a beloved queen long dead or forgotten. The portrait is entirely ordinary, no different than one you would expect to find in a different house. It is of an angel. Well, more accurately, his personal angel. What differs in this portrait from that of another is a subject so wonderful, he often found words impossible to express it. It was of someone who smiled so bright, he couldn't help but let his heart swoon and melt with it. It was of someone who was fragile, who needed him so much that it was obvious to the both of them, and it broke Arthur's heart into a thousand pieces whenever he had to give a promise to return later. It was of someone he loved dearly, someone who stole away the stress and worries of Europe with a warm embarrass and a wet kiss to his cheek.

In short, the portrait is of something he planned on keeping forever. (Likewise, the portrait itself he also plans on keeping for as long as he shall last.) Still, there was more to the portrait and, like the subject in it, he couldn't quite put his finger on it when he tried to speak of it. "He and I," was the furthest to date he had come in his attempts to discuss it over a shared pot of tea. Some years later, he would be able to add onto that sentence.

"He's mine," Arthur murmured, mostly into his China set, with such a soft and precious smile, he was sure whomever witnessed it had assumed the absent words. Money and a drive for land might forever turn the world but there were some other things he liked to think did the same. Magic was one such thing, though for what had happened just a short century ago, he dared not voice that to anyone but himself. Magic had made their existence possible, magic brought them together and it would be that same magic that kept their faces the same whenever they would meet, time after time again. So witch trials would come and pass, innocents and the guilty alike would hang, his southern neighbor's land would be stricken with a fear of werewolves slaughtering their people but Arthur would never give up on magic.

To give up on magic, after all, would be to deny the very existence of that portrait, and that was something he was certain he would never do.

He would always remember the day the portrait was made and thinking back on it, if he allowed himself, he would still feel the pity for the painter that had been commissioned for it. It was impossible to get both Arthur and the subject in together. The subject was wicked, talented, and could have him bent over any way they liked should they just say the word. (At least, that was how they had started.) Not being able to sit still was a poor skill to posses. Even now, Arthur could think of at least half a dozen things it reflected against poorly but at the moment, his mind couldn't bare to think of anything else but the portrait itself as his forced his feet against the cobblestone of England.

For there was, as usual, a painted portrait in Arthur Kirkland's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. The portrait is not of himself, the portrait is of no hero or knight on horseback, nor is it of a beloved queen long dead or forgotten. It was a portrait of someone whom he often associated growing numbers with. It was a portrait of someone who couldn't stand to be cold and as such, kept to whatever house he was left it. It was a portrait of someone who reminded Arthur that he soon might hold the very world in his hands. It was a portrait of someone who was never satisfied with short answers or short visitations. It was a portrait of someone who's crying would forever haunt him in ways he was certain few people could understand.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. To be perfectly honest, there is nothing in the exaggerated and flamboyantly decorated room that he is more proud of, save for, perhaps, who is in the portrait itself.  It is a portrait of a certain someone who would forever cause Arthur countless sleepless nights, would had burned him, ruined him, cut him and left him to bleed. It is a portrait of someone that Arthur could never help but love.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest.

It is not buried in a corner.

There is no scrap of cloth covering it.

There is no other item in the room overshadowing it.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest.

Tonight will be the night he takes it down to burn.

Tonight will be the night he takes it down and discards it forever with a wail of despair. Exaggerated. Tonight he will scream out his frustrations. Tonight he will curse like he has never cursed before. Tonight he will take the Lord's name in vain countless times as he utters every single word he swore never to breathe in the presence of the subject of that once precious portrait. Tonight his nails will claw at his arms, tonight his fingers will grip at his hair, then later, he'll drink himself into a numb oblivion. When morning comes, he will vaguely become aware of the odd, crushing smell of paints and ash.

What he notices first is that it is morning and he remembers someone promised he wouldn't make it through the night. There is no urging forcing him to rise from the floor, there is no hope to make him think it was all a terrible dream, just a terrible, cutting pain that informs him of the truth and that he has bled through yet another cotton shirt. It isn't until he rises to change out of his own soon to be rotting filth that the absence of his portrait becomes noticeable. Something, he tells himself, is wrong with the room.  When he realizes what it is, when he catches that the pile of ash in the fireplace is misshapen and greater than usual, Arthur Kirkland drops to his knees. But he does not cry, he does not scream and he certainly does not perform any act of indignity.

For the briefest time, his mind is transported to another time all together. There is another body crumbled before another sight of fire, here is another pile of ash and with it, a terrible, sickening smell.

Theft

There was a platform built in the middle of the town, centered for all the citizens to see. "And what, pray tell, did you hope to accomplish?" Hope is lost. The sun is high, burning with his victory. His enemy dropped to his knees in shock. "Did you think that you could stop this?" There was murmuring, screaming, begging and shouting. He turned a deaf ear to it all.  "Did you think that you could save her?"

Vaguely, Arthur notes that someone brought the lost soul a makeshift cross. He can't help but be smug as he watches his best enemy and worst friend stand on shaking limbs. In time, when the wind blows, there will be nothing left. No evidence of a body burnt twice to make his point. "Tragic stricken, heathenish harlots like her won't be allowed past Heaven's gates, Francis," he coos. The Frenchman's hands are at his throat in an instant.

Magic

Bit by bit, piece by piece, the world was slowly but surely explained. The world was not flat - one couldn't simply fall off its edge. Prophets, self-proclaimed or not, would always be questioned. Gravity fixed things firmly in place - but those places weren't always permanent places. Scientists announced theories and laws that had no penalties. Arthur did his best to wrap his hand around it all. He did his best to keep up with something past his fascination for the weapons that were changing and advancing. He did his best to look up at the starry night sky and smile when he noticed it wasn't blaze with fire. Things could be explained now; the magic of the world had been lost.

There was no fated bond that drew Empire to colony time after time, again and again. There was nothing other than an apparent set of personal choices that so often put him and Francis at odds. There was nothing significant about the time of day one's baby was born and they could even turn that once sacred, wholesome ritual over to machines, medicine, and strangers to care for.

Arthur would like to say that the magic in the world was gone for him the moment he could bring himself to realize what he had done to that beloved portrait of his. But he knew that wasn't the case. Solemn, he approached the fire pit and picked the solid pieces of what he assumed used to be the thick wooden frame from the pile. Silent, he held them close to his chest.

But magic in the world still existed then. The once British Empire just failed to see it now. Younger nations would insist it was still possible. He would watch a certain bright-eyed young man wave his arms excitedly as he tried to explain yet another magic deprived formula and how it was getting applied elsewhere. The same young man would just as eagerly tug at his arm and force him onto his stomach in front of either of their televisions and turn on some mindless, brightly colored cartoon. On days when the young superpower had somehow forced his way into his London home, Arthur tended to keep his eyes down. He ignored the comments about how big and old his house was, he ignored how awesome it would look if the walls were slathered with posters of some Marvel Comic superhero, but most importantly, he ignored the aching desire to show that once great portrait off to someone.

Pride

"He and I," Arthur found himself practicing in the mirror one day. Another night of drinking himself almost into the gutter. Another night of remembering that feeling centuries ago. "He's mine," he whispered, but he knew better than to truly think that.

Loser

Francis sits across from him at the long table. Today, NATO meets at the insisting of a loud-mouthed American. Said brat has yet to show up, in addition to his look alike brother. Today, Francis has a cruel look in his eyes that can't be explained. "I never knew you were so... infatuated with modern art, Angleterre." Even at peace, they are the other man's worst friend and best enemy, only to be denied that time after time.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I think you do." Francis leans in a little, tilting his head. "Last week when I was at your house, I noticed a particular... arrangement hanging over your mantle." The verbal cut begins, steals away his breath and leaves him longing for an understanding off the features of the cellular phone he grips in his hand to distract himself with. "Sloppily hung, creeky no doubt and dangerously close to your fireplace."

Breathe in. "Your point being...?" Breathe out.

"... Nothing, really. I just couldn't help myself from thinking.... You can't burn what's already been burnt, can you?"

Peacekeeper

Einstein has his Theory of General Relativity, as the textbooks so proudly display it as. If Arthur understood it correctly, and he was fairly certain he did, he could translate it simply as one object cannot be marked as moving without comparing it's position to another. A car could not move if there was no reference point for it to distance itself from or drift closer to. A person could be identified as walking unless they were passing something or something beneath them was changing.

Yesterday, amidst the madness of a changing world, of superpowers breaking apart and perhaps dying, Arthur ventured from his old, curved and enduring city towards the doorsteps of someone familiar in Washington, DC. He assumed there might be some sort of awkward congratulations in order, as there were whispers of the imminent collapse of the Soviet Union with the three Baltics all now having withdrawn from the Iron Curtain but he was wrong. In return for his good intentioned visit, Arthur found the door slammed in his face after a completely hopeful look from Alfred shattered.

Alfred and he had walked countless places of the world countless times, both together and apart, but England and America would always remain the same distance from each other. There would always be that sudden shift from one of them that drew flinches from the other.

It was not the first and it would not be the last time that Arthur questioned which half of Einstein's theory was wrong.

Description
Family Portrait.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. To be perfectly honest, there is nothing in the exaggerated and flamboyantly decorated room that he is more proud of, save for, perhaps, who is in the portrait itself. For this reason and this reason alone, the portrait remains in the middle of the wall, not above the fireplace but instead the wall adjacent to it so that he does not have to free the precious paints melting away.

The portrait is not of himself, the portrait is of no hero or knight on horseback, nor is it of a beloved queen long dead or forgotten. The portrait is entirely ordinary, no different than one you would expect to find in a different house. It is of an angel. Well, more accurately, his personal angel. What differs in this portrait from that of another is a subject so wonderful, he often found words impossible to express it. It was of someone who smiled so bright, he couldn't help but let his heart swoon and melt with it. It was of someone who was fragile, who needed him so much that it was obvious to the both of them, and it broke Arthur's heart into a thousand pieces whenever he had to give a promise to return later. It was of someone he loved dearly, someone who stole away the stress and worries of Europe with a warm embarrass and a wet kiss to his cheek.

In short, the portrait is of something he planned on keeping forever. (Likewise, the portrait itself he also plans on keeping for as long as he shall last.) Still, there was more to the portrait and, like the subject in it, he couldn't quite put his finger on it when he tried to speak of it. "He and I," was the furthest to date he had come in his attempts to discuss it over a shared pot of tea. Some years later, he would be able to add onto that sentence.

"He's mine," Arthur murmured, mostly into his China set, with such a soft and precious smile, he was sure whomever witnessed it had assumed the absent words. Money and a drive for land might forever turn the world but there were some other things he liked to think did the same. Magic was one such thing, though for what had happened just a short century ago, he dared not voice that to anyone but himself. Magic had made their existence possible, magic brought them together and it would be that same magic that kept their faces the same whenever they would meet, time after time again. So witch trials would come and pass, innocents and the guilty alike would hang, his southern neighbor's land would be stricken with a fear of werewolves slaughtering their people but Arthur would never give up on magic.

To give up on magic, after all, would be to deny the very existence of that portrait, and that was something he was certain he would never do.

He would always remember the day the portrait was made and thinking back on it, if he allowed himself, he would still feel the pity for the painter that had been commissioned for it. It was impossible to get both Arthur and the subject in together. The subject was wicked, talented, and could have him bent over any way they liked should they just say the word. (At least, that was how they had started.) Not being able to sit still was a poor skill to posses. Even now, Arthur could think of at least half a dozen things it reflected against poorly but at the moment, his mind couldn't bare to think of anything else but the portrait itself as his forced his feet against the cobblestone of England.

For there was, as usual, a painted portrait in Arthur Kirkland's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. The portrait is not of himself, the portrait is of no hero or knight on horseback, nor is it of a beloved queen long dead or forgotten. It was a portrait of someone whom he often associated growing numbers with. It was a portrait of someone who couldn't stand to be cold and as such, kept to whatever house he was left it. It was a portrait of someone who reminded Arthur that he soon might hold the very world in his hands. It was a portrait of someone who was never satisfied with short answers or short visitations. It was a portrait of someone who's crying would forever haunt him in ways he was certain few people could understand.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. To be perfectly honest, there is nothing in the exaggerated and flamboyantly decorated room that he is more proud of, save for, perhaps, who is in the portrait itself.  It is a portrait of a certain someone who would forever cause Arthur countless sleepless nights, would had burned him, ruined him, cut him and left him to bleed. It is a portrait of someone that Arthur could never help but love.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest.

It is not buried in a corner.

There is no scrap of cloth covering it.

There is no other item in the room overshadowing it.

There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest.

Tonight will be the night he takes it down to burn.

Tonight will be the night he takes it down and discards it forever with a wail of despair. Exaggerated. Tonight he will scream out his frustrations. Tonight he will curse like he has never cursed before. Tonight he will take the Lord's name in vain countless times as he utters every single word he swore never to breathe in the presence of the subject of that once precious portrait. Tonight his nails will claw at his arms, tonight his fingers will grip at his hair, then later, he'll drink himself into a numb oblivion. When morning comes, he will vaguely become aware of the odd, crushing smell of paints and ash.

What he notices first is that it is morning and he remembers someone promised he wouldn't make it through the night. There is no urging forcing him to rise from the floor, there is no hope to make him think it was all a terrible dream, just a terrible, cutting pain that informs him of the truth and that he has bled through yet another cotton shirt. It isn't until he rises to change out of his own soon to be rotting filth that the absence of his portrait becomes noticeable. Something, he tells himself, is wrong with the room.  When he realizes what it is, when he catches that the pile of ash in the fireplace is misshapen and greater than usual, Arthur Kirkland drops to his knees. But he does not cry, he does not scream and he certainly does not perform any act of indignity.

For the briefest time, his mind is transported to another time all together. There is another body crumbled before another sight of fire, here is another pile of ash and with it, a terrible, sickening smell.

Theft

There was a platform built in the middle of the town, centered for all the citizens to see. "And what, pray tell, did you hope to accomplish?" Hope is lost. The sun is high, burning with his victory. His enemy dropped to his knees in shock. "Did you think that you could stop this?" There was murmuring, screaming, begging and shouting. He turned a deaf ear to it all.  "Did you think that you could save her?"

Vaguely, Arthur notes that someone brought the lost soul a makeshift cross. He can't help but be smug as he watches his best enemy and worst friend stand on shaking limbs. In time, when the wind blows, there will be nothing left. No evidence of a body burnt twice to make his point. "Tragic stricken, heathenish harlots like her won't be allowed past Heaven's gates, Francis," he coos. The Frenchman's hands are at his throat in an instant.

Magic

Bit by bit, piece by piece, the world was slowly but surely explained. The world was not flat - one couldn't simply fall off its edge. Prophets, self-proclaimed or not, would always be questioned. Gravity fixed things firmly in place - but those places weren't always permanent places. Scientists announced theories and laws that had no penalties. Arthur did his best to wrap his hand around it all. He did his best to keep up with something past his fascination for the weapons that were changing and advancing. He did his best to look up at the starry night sky and smile when he noticed it wasn't blaze with fire. Things could be explained now; the magic of the world had been lost.

There was no fated bond that drew Empire to colony time after time, again and again. There was nothing other than an apparent set of personal choices that so often put him and Francis at odds. There was nothing significant about the time of day one's baby was born and they could even turn that once sacred, wholesome ritual over to machines, medicine, and strangers to care for.

Arthur would like to say that the magic in the world was gone for him the moment he could bring himself to realize what he had done to that beloved portrait of his. But he knew that wasn't the case. Solemn, he approached the fire pit and picked the solid pieces of what he assumed used to be the thick wooden frame from the pile. Silent, he held them close to his chest.

But magic in the world still existed then. The once British Empire just failed to see it now. Younger nations would insist it was still possible. He would watch a certain bright-eyed young man wave his arms excitedly as he tried to explain yet another magic deprived formula and how it was getting applied elsewhere. The same young man would just as eagerly tug at his arm and force him onto his stomach in front of either of their televisions and turn on some mindless, brightly colored cartoon. On days when the young superpower had somehow forced his way into his London home, Arthur tended to keep his eyes down. He ignored the comments about how big and old his house was, he ignored how awesome it would look if the walls were slathered with posters of some Marvel Comic superhero, but most importantly, he ignored the aching desire to show that once great portrait off to someone.

Pride

"He and I," Arthur found himself practicing in the mirror one day. Another night of drinking himself almost into the gutter. Another night of remembering that feeling centuries ago. "He's mine," he whispered, but he knew better than to truly think that.

Loser

Francis sits across from him at the long table. Today, NATO meets at the insisting of a loud-mouthed American. Said brat has yet to show up, in addition to his look alike brother. Today, Francis has a cruel look in his eyes that can't be explained. "I never knew you were so... infatuated with modern art, Angleterre." Even at peace, they are the other man's worst friend and best enemy, only to be denied that time after time.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I think you do." Francis leans in a little, tilting his head. "Last week when I was at your house, I noticed a particular... arrangement hanging over your mantle." The verbal cut begins, steals away his breath and leaves him longing for an understanding off the features of the cellular phone he grips in his hand to distract himself with. "Sloppily hung, creeky no doubt and dangerously close to your fireplace."

Breathe in. "Your point being...?" Breathe out.

"... Nothing, really. I just couldn't help myself from thinking.... You can't burn what's already been burnt, can you?"

Peacekeeper

Einstein has his Theory of General Relativity, as the textbooks so proudly display it as. If Arthur understood it correctly, and he was fairly certain he did, he could translate it simply as one object cannot be marked as moving without comparing it's position to another. A car could not move if there was no reference point for it to distance itself from or drift closer to. A person could be identified as walking unless they were passing something or something beneath them was changing.

Yesterday, amidst the madness of a changing world, of superpowers breaking apart and perhaps dying, Arthur ventured from his old, curved and enduring city towards the doorsteps of someone familiar in Washington, DC. He assumed there might be some sort of awkward congratulations in order, as there were whispers of the imminent collapse of the Soviet Union with the three Baltics all now having withdrawn from the Iron Curtain but he was wrong. In return for his good intentioned visit, Arthur found the door slammed in his face after a completely hopeful look from Alfred shattered.

Alfred and he had walked countless places of the world countless times, both together and apart, but England and America would always remain the same distance from each other. There would always be that sudden shift from one of them that drew flinches from the other.

It was not the first and it would not be the last time that Arthur questioned which half of Einstein's theory was wrong.